


To Love and Be Loved

by themusicsonourside



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: A little (or lot) of angst, Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:54:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7809853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themusicsonourside/pseuds/themusicsonourside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry nodded and said, “Yeah. I’ll tell them I wrote it back when I was living in shit motels with my boyfriend, just me and him trying to make it. I’ll tell them I wrote it about my soulmate, the one who taught me how to love and be loved. And you’ll be there in the crowd listening and you’ll know I’m talking about you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first thing i've posted to ao3, most of my other stuff i just post on my tumblr, and i'm nervous! but here i am giving it a go, and i hope everyone who reads it enjoys it! this was weeks of torture with myself to finish, and while i'm not entirely confident it's my best, i still love it.  
> enjoy :)

_Then_

Working in a coffee shop was never a real dream, especially not for Zayn, but when money was tight and times were rough, he took what came his way because at the end of the day, a job is a job.

It had its perks of course, such as a good owner who paid all four employees well and let them split the earnings of the tip jar at the end of each shift. Zayn always left each night with an extra twenty bucks in his pocket because hipsters loved local individually owned coffee shops. But the best perk of them all was that the owner let Zayn hang his artwork around the small building and he was often able to sell small pieces to said local hipsters.

Coffee shops are cliché and lame, but a job is a job, and overall Zayn loved his job.

Living alone in a big city is hard; Zayn knew that much before he moved out on his own, but he didn’t think his dream of a career in art in a big city would be nearly unachievable. That was a hard lesson to learn, one that left him sitting on the hardwood floor of his little studio apartment crying every night for his first two months alone. Three years and thousands of dollars later, art school proved to be nothing more than a waste of his time because he didn’t make it.

That’s when he took the coffee shop job, when he decided he couldn’t afford to sit and cry because nobody would give his work the time of day. And at the end of the day, that job paid his bills and kept him fed. It gave him reason to get out of bed and be a contributing member of society. It gave his mom a reason to stop calling fifty times a day with worry evident in her voice. It was a job.

One of Zayn’s favorite parts of the coffee shop job was Friday and Saturday nights when the owner had open mic nights. Locals would come in and sign up to play a few songs and regulars got paid a small lump of cash from the owner. A crowd would fill the little building and cheer on the aspiring musicians, and at the end of the night, Zayn had new music to look up.

Most weekends, the same handful of musicians came in to play and the same crowd of people were drawn in to listen. Occasionally new faces would wander in and perform for one night, but Zayn knew the regulars like he knew how to make lattes.

+

It was a Friday night in early August when things started to look up. It was when a lanky young guy with curly hair and his entire chest hanging out of his patterned shirt wandered in with his guitar slung over his shoulder. Zayn watched many faces come and go, but some of them he could never forget and this was one of them.

Act after act stood up in front of the window that night and sang their hearts out, instruments or background music playing along with their voices while their hats and guitar cases or mugs earned tips from the crowd watching. It was always such an awesome thing to be a part of.

But Zayn didn’t know passion until the lanky guy, the one the owner announced as Harry, stepped up for his turn and he poured his heart out into his music. A calm yet powerful voice singing hauntingly beautiful lyrics about heartache filled the room and Zayn was hooked.

***

_Now_

It’s so cold outside, the temperature reaching below freezing as snow falls from the sky. Winter is Zayn’s least favorite season. It’s Harry’s favorite.

Zayn didn’t think about the seasons before, hell, he didn’t really think of anything before. He thought about Harry; going where Harry said, where Harry wanted, doing all the things Harry wanted to do because back then Harry was all that mattered.

There was a lot of things he didn’t consider before, including how putting Harry first would have its effect on him in the end.

The heat in the shitty motel is taking too long to warm the room and Zayn’s used to it by now, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s irritated by it. He sits on the edge of the bed rubbing his hands together and bringing them to his mouth to blow on the tips of his fingers, but it’s incredibly ineffective. 

“Here,” Harry sits beside him and reaches out for Zayn’s hands, holding them between his own. They’re significantly larger than his own and Harry just seems to produce more body heat anyways so it helps. “I’ll keep you warm ‘til it kicks in.”

“Thanks.” Zayn mumbles, his nose warming up as he starts to feel the temperature rise in the room.

“Just need a little more money, babe. We’ll get there soon.” Harry whispers, his eyes holding that same hopeful look he had several months ago when it first started.

Soon. That’s Harry’s favorite word; it’s the one he uses in place of punctuation when he makes promises he can’t keep. If Zayn had a dollar for every time Harry used the word soon, they wouldn’t be living in the shittiest motels, but rather be back home in Zayn’s place, or maybe they’d have made it in California like they were supposed to, like Harry said they would.

Zayn thinks about before, about how good it was then when they’d first met and they were happy; when Harry was the best part of his world, before he let Harry drag him into this mess. When their relationship sparked and Harry spontaneously moved his things over to Zayn’s. When they slept until noon and stayed up until three in the morning. When Harry sang silly songs while he made breakfast, and Zayn spent his spare time painting pictures to match the energy Harry put out.

It seems like a distant memory and the longer Zayn thinks about it, the angrier he becomes.

He pulls his hands away from Harry’s and stands from the bed to yank his sweater over his body and throw it on the floor. He ignores the way Harry’s face falls into a deep frown, just like Harry probably ignores the anger radiating from Zayn’s body as he wanders towards the bathroom.

Neither of them are quite sure when they got like this, when it got this bad, but they both ignore it because it’s easier that way.

***

_Then_

“I’m Harry.”

That’s how it all started. When the lanky guy, Harry, walked up to the counter and reached a hand across it to introduce himself.

“Zayn.”

There was an immediate spark when they spoke, when they touched, when they just shared a look with one another, a connection running between them like a tangible line stringing them together. They were hooked to one another from that very minute on.

“It’s nice to meet you, Zayn.” Harry said to him as he took a seat at the barstool and smiled brightly.

It was as easy as that. They talked for a good hour while musicians continued to play and customers ordered their drinks. Zayn did his job all while holding conversation with Harry sitting there talking his ear off, telling him all the little things about himself such as when he learned to play guitar and how he drove from Columbus for days just to play his music wherever he could.

Harry was a simple guy, no complexity to him whatsoever. He played music with a purpose. He was out to prove a point, to prove his dad wrong for saying he’d never amount to anything; to prove his mom he could earn a living from playing rather than settling for something like teaching music. He chose to uproot his life in Columbus, to drive around and play in clubs and coffee shops and street corners, anywhere he could earn a few bucks to get him to the next city. Just a guy and his guitar, and daily phone calls from his best friend. Harry Styles lived a simple life.

Zayn found the similarities between them in that. He was a simple guy too; he liked cereal for breakfast, he always played music while painting and showering, he liked to sleep until noon and go to bed at two in the morning. He had a routine down that made for a simple life, just him and his easel, and maybe that’s why they were so connected.

+

“I stay in motels,” Harry explained when Zayn asked where he was staying, hoping it wasn’t a case of living in his car. “Mostly crappy little places for cheap so I can save as much money as possible.”

“Makes sense.” Zayn nodded along, and it actually didn’t make much sense to him because he, personally, could never imagine doing that, but who was he to judge the way another person lived their life.

“California is the goal.” Harry said in between sips of his latte. “I figure if I travel around now and earn some cash, I’ll eventually have enough to get me there. The land of opportunity.”

Again, it didn’t make much sense to Zayn just because he couldn’t picture himself giving up his life for art, but he admired Harry’s ambition to prove his point and to make something of himself through his music.

When he asked about Zayn’s passions, something he didn’t get asked about often, Zayn pointed to the picture hanging over the counter behind him and said, “Painting.”

Harry Styles draws you in, makes you feel important and necessary. That’s how he made Zayn feel in that very moment as he admired the painting, asked questions, engaged in a long conversation about art and Zayn’s routine. He listened for an entire half hour as Zayn rambled on about his favorite mediums and the sickest shade of blue he mixed a few days before. Harry’s smile grew fond and his hands were very animated when he spoke and his eyes lit up as he showed genuine interest in Zayn’s passion and it became Zayn’s goal to mix that shade of green one day.

“There has to be a place out there for artists.” Harry told him with a grin. “Maybe it’s in California, too.”

That’s how Harry drew Zayn in.

+

Harry became a regular, stopping in every Friday and Saturday night to play for two months. And on the days where he didn’t play, he still stopped in to say hi to Zayn when he worked, and some days he stayed for hours because he didn’t have anywhere else to be. They became a regular part of each other’s lives as casual as that.

Zayn falls in love easily, sometimes with just little things about people such as their smiles or their voices or when they hold the door open for him, and sometimes he falls in love with them entirely. That’s how it happened with Harry. Instantly and entirely; he didn’t even realize it, but it was there and became more clear with each visit they had.

One October afternoon, Harry came into the shop with the happiest expression on his face and when Zayn looked at him, his heart skipped a beat.

“I met a guy,” Harry told him cheerfully.

“Oh.” Zayn replied with a low tone, a crease forming between his eyebrows then.

Harry reached across the table and smacked his arm as his smile turned into a smirk and he said, “Not like that, dummy. I meant a music guy. I met a music guy, Z.”

“Oh?”

Harry reached into the black messenger bag he carried everywhere he went and pulled out a small, sketchy business card, sliding it across the table to show Zayn.

“A real music guy. He saw me playing last night and loved my music. He’s got connections, Zayn. California connections.”

“Harry…” Zayn trailed off, not entirely convinced.

“He said if I can get there by the end of November, he can guarantee me a great spot to play in a crowded part of town.” Harry explained excitedly. “This is it! This is what I’ve been waiting for for months. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

Zayn wasn’t buying it. Two and two just didn’t add up, but Harry was so happy and excited and that’s all that mattered then.

Harry formulated a plan; he was going to leave in a few weeks, start his journey across the country to something that wasn’t even guaranteed no matter how convinced he was. He was going to do it because he had a point to prove.

“Since I’ll be leaving eventually, I think this is a good time to ask you out. So, Zayn Malik, will you go out to dinner with me tonight?”

And it really kicked off from there.

They spent every moment possible together, even on the days where Zayn worked. They spent their mornings having breakfast and their afternoons watching movies or talking, and they spent every night together learning one another like the back of their own hands. Inseparable and quickly falling in love.

***

_Now_

Zayn pulls the cover up over his shoulder and stares at the ugly green curtain hiding the big glass window on the other side. He can’t sleep, not when his brain is focusing on Harry’s fingers tapping the keys of his laptop, not when the lamp beside the bed is shining brighter than it needs to be, not when the furnace is making that weird rattling noise it makes every time it kicks on.

He doesn’t sleep much or well these days anyways, so another night won’t make any difference. Most nights he tosses and turns, yanks the blanket away from Harry, pushes him towards the other side of the queen sized bed because even though he wants the body heat, Harry being so close to him is suffocating anymore. Some nights he takes his pillow down to the foot of the bed and sleeps that way, and other nights he gets out of the bed entirely and sleeps on the floor or in the car. Some nights, he just can’t stand being beside Harry.

He doesn’t know how they got there. They were happy and in love just a few months prior. The most instant and intense kind of love either of them had ever experienced. But one day Zayn woke up and realized it wasn’t the same, he wasn’t happy or in love anymore. He was angry, resentful, irritated.

He tries to remember the exact day he noticed he didn’t feel anything good towards Harry anymore, but when he starts to realize that maybe he never really felt those good things deep down to begin with, he rolls over and distracts himself.

“What are you typing?” He asks Harry, peeking over at the laptop perched on his thighs.

Harry turns the computer towards Zayn and shows him the screen. “Sending an email to this guy who has a cheap apartment available.”

“Let me see.” Zayn says, shifting his body so he can lean up on his elbow. They don’t need an apartment, they have Zayn’s back in Chicago, but Harry told him from early on that they needed something bigger.

Harry clicks around on the screen and pulls up a tab with pictures. It’s a one bedroom, one bathroom. It has a walk in closet, a washer and dryer in the apartment, and a nice kitchen with an island. It’s almost too good to be the price listed at the top so Zayn reaches out and scrolls down to the area it’s in, and he pushes the computer back towards Harry when he does.

“What?” Harry asks with a genuinely confused frown on his face.

“California? Really?”

Harry stays silent.

“We tried that already. It didn’t work. We’re going back to Chicago.”

“But-”

“No, Harry. You got scammed the first time, do you really want to go back and make a fool out of yourself again? Just let it go. The dream is over. Grow up and get a real job.” Zayn shouts before he flips back over to his other side, facing the ugly green curtains. They’re harsh, his words, and he doesn’t mean to be, but he can only contain his frustration for so long, and he’s reaching his breaking point.

Harry doesn’t respond, he doesn’t continue typing, he doesn’t do anything. He just sits there behind Zayn, silent and sad.

“Can you turn the light off?”

There’s a long pause, long enough that Zayn thinks Harry isn’t going to do it, but then he says okay and the light shuts off and Zayn closes his eyes to force himself to sleep before he has a chance to think or get angry.

It wasn’t always bad, but Zayn can’t even remember what good felt like.

***

_Then_

The first time Harry ever told Zayn he loved him was a week before he was set to leave.

They’d spent all the time in the world together, hardly ever apart, and it became clear to Zayn that he most definitely was in love with Harry after all that.

They were laying on Zayn’s bed in his little studio apartment. Harry was sprawled half across Zayn and half across the bed, tracing patters on Zayn’s stomach while Zayn traced patterns across the bare skin of Harry’s back.

It wasn’t just his apartment anymore. It also became Harry’s. He’d started bringing movies and CD’s over to show Zayn because his collection wasn’t enough, and then little by little, his clothes would litter the floor from where he’d strip the night before and leave the pieces there the next day. He bought Zayn new plastic cups because he didn’t like how heavy the glasses were. He brought a few of his blankets over because one of Zayn’s was too thin and another was too scratchy, but his own were just right. He left his toothbrush and deodorant on the bathroom counter one night and it never moved after that. Several pairs of his shoes lined the wall by the front door. No matter where Zayn looked in his apartment, there was a trace of Harry there.

That’s what Zayn was doing when Harry said it. He was tracing patterns on Harry’s bare skin while looking around the room and smiling because he was everywhere at the same time.

“You should come with me.” Harry told him, resting his chin on Zayn’s shoulder so he could watch his expression.

“What?” Zayn asked, his hand stilling and eyes darting to Harry’s.

And Harry said it so casually, like it was nothing and everything mixed into one.

“I love you, Zayn, and I want you to come with me. To California. If you want. Because I love you, and I want you to.”

Zayn didn’t reply immediately, nor did he return the words then and there either. It was a lot to process, to consider, to answer.

Harry begged and begged for hours and days and Zayn told him no more times than he can even remember because everything he had was right there in that little apartment and he wasn’t so sure he was willing to give it up for love.

But three days later, with only a few more left before his departure, Zayn’s ‘I love you’ came as he sat on the couch beside Harry, who was formulating a plan so Zayn could keep his things and still travel to chase a dream that wasn’t his own, because that’s what Harry wanted.

There wasn’t a real reason keeping Zayn from going. His furniture could go for a couple hundred and all of the things he wanted most, he could put in a storage unit to come back for another time. There wasn’t anything holding him back, or so he told himself while Harry jotted down notes in a notebook, unaware of Zayn’s brain on overdrive. Zayn sought out every reason he could go, every excuse he could come up with to convince himself he wanted this too, and eventually it worked.

Harry’s best friend, that was what sold him on the idea. Niall was his name and he lived in Columbus, slept on a cot in the spare bedroom of his old college friend’s apartment. He, like Zayn had convinced himself, had no ties to where he was living and was open to coming to stay at Zayn’s place until he and Harry returned, whenever that would be. Harry said he trusted Niall with his life, that there wasn’t a better friend out there, and so Zayn trusted him too.

It was that night when Zayn finally said it; after their movie had ended and they’d migrated to the bed to cuddle because Harry liked being close. It was when Harry looked back at Zayn with a smile like he owned the world and nothing could stop him because they had one another. That’s when Zayn whispered it.

“I love you.” He said, leaning forward to kiss Harry lightly.

+

Niall was at the door the following afternoon, having flown in immediately with a large suitcase and a welcoming embrace.

Zayn only got three days to know him, three days to trust this stranger moving into his apartment.

Zayn only got three days to accept the fate he’d mistakenly chosen. Three days to swallow the lump in his throat as he left behind everything he had.

***

_Now_

It’s another night with Harry too close.

He’s been at Zayn’s side all day long, talking his ear off and showing him pictures of apartments in California. He’s annoying, always there and loud and annoying. They spend every single minute of every day together and it drives Zayn insane.

He can’t remember when having Harry around became so frustrating because it was always so great, it made him happy, Harry completed him. They just worked like that because they enjoyed being around one another so often. But now, Zayn can’t do it. He takes longer showers, drives slowly on gas runs, browses each aisle of the grocery store even when his list consists of mouthwash and milk. Anything that keeps him away from Harry for a bit helps clear his head and makes him feel like he can breathe again.

Harry knows. He knows Zayn’s growing impatient and irritable and tired. Zayn can see it, sense it, feel it. But Harry ignores it, pretends he doesn’t know, and instead he pushes more for Zayn’s attention.

That’s what he’s doing then as he leans in closer and grabs Zayn by the shoulder, pressing a few kisses there and inching up to Zayn’s neck.

Zayn gently shrugs him off, but Harry only tries more.

“I’m tired, Harry.” Zayn huffs, yanking the blanket up over his shoulder like he always does.

“Zayn,” Harry tries again, and fails. He flops over to his back, making the entire bed shake and he sighs loudly in frustration before saying, “I don’t understand. You don’t hug me, touch me, kiss me. You hardly listen to me. Why don’t you want me anymore?”

Zayn’s heart snaps in half, literally, because it’s the first time Harry has acknowledged Zayn’s distance since it started settling in, and he’s not quite ready to have this discussion. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t move. He stays put, barely even breathing, with hopes Harry will just go to sleep and let it be.

But he doesn’t because he’s Harry Styles and he goes for what he wants, including answers to questions Zayn doesn’t want to confront.

“Please, Z. Talk to me for once.” He begs, crowding up to Zayn again, his body pushing against Zayn’s back, getting too close again.

Zayn sighs because he doesn’t want to talk, because he doesn’t want to do this right now when it’s cold and he’s tired. Because this might be the end and while he can barely tolerate Harry anymore, he doesn’t want it to be over.

“What do you want me to say, Harry?”

“I just want you to tell me why.”

It’s vague, open for any direction Zayn wants to take it, but he knows what Harry actually means.

Zayn flips over so he’s facing Harry, their bodies closer together than they have been in months, too close for Zayn’s liking, but he lets Harry have it.

Harry has that sad look on his face that Zayn hates; he wants to run his hand across it and wipe it away, and so he does. He brings his hand to Harry’s cheek and touches it, the feeling of his smooth skin to Zayn’s hand almost foreign. He runs his thumb across Harry’s jaw, his lips, his chin. His fingers flutter across Harry’s eyelashes, his eyebrows, his forehead. He feels it all, touches every part of Harry’s face until there is no crease between his brows and the look of nerves and sadness is wiped away and replaced by confusion.

Zayn leans in then, slowly, and he kisses Harry gently for the first time in weeks; a real, genuine kiss. And Harry kisses him back, harder, with more force like he needs Zayn to feel it. Like he’s saying something he can’t verbalize. Zayn hears it, feels it, knows what it is, what it means. He sees it when Harry pulls away, when he pulls the sheet up to his chest and turns away from Zayn rather than clinging to him like he does every night. Harry’s made the decision Zayn was never brave enough to make.

“I love you.” Zayn tells him, whispers really, as he looks over at the back of Harry’s head, at his curly hair sweeping over the white pillow. His Harry, the simple guy he fell in love with once. The guy with his guitar.

“I love you, too.” Harry replies, back still facing Zayn. He sniffs a few times, and then the room falls silent and Zayn falls asleep.

+

The room is a little too warm, causing a thin layer of sweat to roll from Zayn’s hairline at the base of his neck. He’s used to it because Harry insists on sleeping so close with a dozen blankets when they don’t need them. Zayn always wakes up sweaty, and he usually pushes Harry away first, and then kicks off the blankets.

But this time he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches an arm out beside him to grab for what he knows isn’t there, and he only cries out a few loud sobs into his pillow when he touches mattress instead of Harry.

Zayn stays in the bed, unmoving, until six ‘o clock in the evening. He knew it’s what he would wake up to, a room to himself, only him and his belongings. He knew Harry would leave before he woke, because Harry told him with his lips, with his forced kiss, that this was goodbye.

And yeah, Zayn wanted that. Most days, he wants to be as far away from Harry as he could possibly get because Harry Styles is selfish and clingy and annoying. Harry Styles snores when he sleeps and he laughs too loud in quiet spaces, he orders water with no ice and dips his pizza in ranch dressing, he wears shirts with ugly patterns and leaves his shoes in front of the door for Zayn to trip over. Harry Styles hogs the blankets and sleeps too close, he drinks too much coffee and talks for hours. He tells you he loves you and then leaves you one day.

But for everything Harry does that Zayn hates, there’s also something Zayn loves; like the curve of his hips, the smile he wears when he sings, how he has to sing Superstitious by Stevie Wonder every night before they leave to see him perform because it’s a ritual now and his favorite song of all time. Zayn loves the way Harry laughs when he’s happy, and shares all of his feelings when he’s sad. He loves how passionate Harry is about his dreams, and how he’ll always think of Zayn at random times when he begins to feel forgotten.

Zayn loves Harry.

Zayn loved Harry.

He cries into his pillow for the rest of the night, alone in the shitty motel, only the walls hearing his pain.


	2. Two

_Now_

All it took was being in the right place at the right time with the right people, and Harry was.

His name is Louis Tomlinson, and he’s the one who turned Harry Styles’ life around.

When Harry left Zayn behind at the shitty motel, he had no plan. All the money he had was being saved to buy him and Zayn a weekend in a nice, five-star hotel for once, so he could give Zayn something better like he deserved, so he could win Zayn over again because he knew they were growing too distant.

But Zayn wanted out and Harry couldn’t hold him back anymore, couldn’t force him to continue chasing a dream that wasn’t his. So Harry left nearly all the money for Zayn, tucked right under the edge of the pillow where he’d find it while looking for the note Harry didn’t leave, and he took his two bags next door to the bus station where he bought himself a ticket back to California.

It was at a bar just a few minutes outside of San Diego, in the middle of no where, one of those little places off the side of a busy freeway. That’s where Harry met Louis.

He was due to take the stage any minute for his turn to play when he heard a few girls chatting at the table beside him about how a hotshot music producer was in the bar. And yeah, he was. Sat secluded in a booth near the back with a few burly guys beside him was Louis Tomlinson, owner of 78 Productions.

Harry didn’t know the name or the company, but by the end of the night, it would become his future.

+

In a nice little studio of a large building, carpeted walls and a glass window with five men sitting on the other side watching is where Harry recorded his first single.

In the back of a taxi on his way back to his hotel room from a bar at one in the morning is when he heard his voice, his lyrics, his music playing on the alternative radio station. He cried for two hours after.

In the heart of West Hollywood, five minutes from the Walk of Fame and all tourist attractions, is where Louis and his team set Harry up in a condo, one with dark hardwood floors and marble countertops in the kitchen like he always wanted.

In a bigger version of the first studio he ever stepped foot in, Harry recorded his first EP. Five songs he wrote the lyrics and music for. He cried for a week.

+

He’s not famous, but he’s successful as an artist. His music gets radio play, one song even hitting mainstream stations briefly, and people ask for pictures when they see him on the streets. He’s happy because his voice and his lyrics make people happy and that’s all he’s ever wanted.

Harry Styles made a name for himself by himself. He proved the point he had set out to make long ago. He was somebody like he always wanted.

He sent copies of his first album, ten songs of his own, out to his parents, each with a handwritten note saying a less shitty version of ‘I told you so’. He also sent a copy to Zayn’s address, but the package came back with a return to sender sticker on it, and he tucked it away on the shelf for the future.

+

Harry doesn’t think about Zayn often because it hurts too much, and if he keeps his mind occupied by other things, he doesn’t have to remember Zayn.

But when he does think of him, Harry thinks about before when they were in Chicago, those first few months spent together. When they were happy and falling in love. Their crazy, instant, and intense love.

He doesn’t let his mind think about that night, the one where he slipped out the door of the motel once he heard Zayn’s breathing even out and he fell asleep; and he definitely doesn’t let himself wonder where Zayn is now or who he’s seeing or what he’s doing because that hurts too.

He finds it easiest and best to remember the good times. When Harry loved Zayn, and Zayn loved Harry.

***

Success comes in different forms. It’s not always about dollars and expensive items. Sometimes it’s about the steps you took and the obstacles you faced to achieve your goals. Sometimes it’s both.

Zayn found success when he returned to Chicago. It was after Harry left, after he laid in bed crying, after he searched the room for a note that didn’t exist, after he found the money and packed up his things.

It was after he got back to his apartment, after he explained the entire few months they’d been gone to Niall, after he cleaned up all of Harry’s belongings and erased every trace of him from his memory.

It was when he returned to the coffee shop and found out one of his favorite paintings had sold for a large sum of money to Liam Payne, owner of Payne Enterprises. He had no clue who Liam was, or what he did, or even why he bought the painting, but Zayn called him up anyways and thanked him personally for the generous check.

It was when Liam Payne called Zayn a few weeks later, told him he liked Zayn’s creative eye and asked if he’d be interested in learning something new. It was when Liam Payne paid Zayn to take graphic design classes at a local college and then offered him a job in the advertising department of Payne Enterprises.

It was when Zayn was making enough money to afford a nice two-bedroom apartment in the nicer part of Chicago with his new best friend Niall, that he finally felt success.

+

The day Zayn found out Harry finally made it was a few weeks into his new job. In his office surrounded by a few guys on his floor, Zayn sat at his desk having a conversation with his co workers about a new layout he wanted to try for a website they were building. Everyone was sharing their ideas and taking notes from one another while music played lightly in the background from the radio on Zayn’s filing cabinet.

The room fell silent as they all started copying down a note Zayn had written, and that’s when he heard it.

“This is Harry Styles with his newest single ‘We’.” And then the music began, followed by the voice Zayn knew as well as his own, and lyrics he once heard Harry singing in one of the many shitty motels they stayed in.

The whole world stopped for a few long seconds as it registered in Zayn’s mind.

He didn’t know where Harry was, or what he was doing. He didn’t know he’d made it like he always said he would. He also didn’t acknowledge it.

Zayn rose from his chair and reached for the radio, turned the volume all the way down, and then proceeded to talk about his notes like he’d never heard the song.

He didn’t go home and Google Harry’s name, nor did he ask or tell Niall about it. He ignored all thoughts entirely until he forgot because it hurt less when Harry was a distant memory.

***

It’s a music festival in Chicago, a two-day thing, and Harry is playing both days on the B stage. It’s hands down the biggest thing he’s done in his career thus far, and he’s going to debut a new song.

Harry stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, running his hand over the top of his head and down the back, touching the back of his neck that is no longer covered by long locks. He’s different now. A lot has changed, look and personality wise for Harry. He’s still the simple guy from Ohio with just his guitar and passion for music, but he’s no longer selfish and needy. He stands on his own as his own. He’s grown up in the last year and he’s different. He’s happy.

+

It’s been so long since they’ve seen one another. The Harry Zayn once knew was tall and lanky and weird with long curls and crazy patterned shirts he didn’t know how to button up. He’s more broad in the shoulders and his hair is much shorter. He wears less flashy shirts and even tighter jeans. He’s practically a whole new person, and Zayn’s going to hate him even more than he probably already does, but it’s Zayn and after all that time, Harry would still go to the ends of the earth for him.

He has no plan for what to say, how to act, what to think. It’s been a long time and he just wants to make things right, to end on a good note rather than the incomplete story they swept behind them. They’re Zayn and Harry, two guys who fell into an instant and intense love, and Harry just needs Zayn to know he’s sorry for how ridiculous he was before.

The elevator dings and the doors open, and Harry suddenly feels nauseous as he steps out of it and starts down the hallway.

Room seven-zero-four, that’s the number Niall told him when they chatted on the phone a few days prior for the first time in over a year. He’s a very forgiving guy, Niall is, and he told Harry Zayn would be too.

But when Harry knocks on the door three gentle times and it swings open and Zayn’s eyes go from shocked to angered, he’s not so sure.

“Hi,” he says, waving slightly and nervously. Zayn looks the same, but better. His hair is shorter on the sides and it stands up a little taller on the top than it used to. His beard is thinner and he looks a little less lanky than he used to be. But he’s Zayn, Harry’s Zayn.

“Hi.” Harry says again because Zayn has yet to move or speak.

“What are you doing here?” Zayn finally asks, the angered eyes not lifting or changing.

Harry smiles softly like he used to when Zayn was upset because it always made him relax a little, but this time his shoulders don’t fall and his frown doesn’t disappear. He stays cold and hard and angry.

“I came to see you. Can I come in?”

“How did you know where I live?”

Harry holds his phone up and Zayn doesn’t even look. “Niall told me. We’ve been talking for a while.”

Zayn goes to shut the door, but Harry throws his arm out to stop him and he says, “Can we talk? Please?”

Zayn doesn’t budge, of course not, because he’s hard-headed, so Harry pushes past him and steps in anyways. His eyes scan the apartment, taking in the nice carpet and the big TV hanging on the wall across from the couch. Compared to Zayn’s little studio, the place is huge.

“You left me.” Zayn states in his cold, flat tone as he lets the door slam behind them.

It’s not the conversation starter Harry wanted, but he takes the bait anyways and says, “You wanted me to go away.”

Zayn stays quiet.

“I left because you wanted me to anyways, Z.”

“No.”

“Yes you did. You hated me.”

Zayn shakes his head, his frown deepening and his eyes growing angrier. “I did not.”

“It’s okay. I get it, I was stupid and selfish. I understand now.”

“Why are you here?”

Harry shrugs.

“You should go.”

“Alright.” Harry gives in because there is no point in arguing or trying when Zayn won’t.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out the CD Zayn never received, as well as an envelope.

“For you,” He tells Zayn as he hands it over. “I’m playing the festival in two days. B stage. There are two tickets in there if you want to come.”

And with that, Harry leaves, his unwritten love story with Zayn never getting the ending it deserved.

+

Niall talked him into it, otherwise Zayn probably wouldn’t have gone. He doesn’t like heat and crowds. And he doesn’t need to see Harry again, but Niall thinks he does because if he can forgive his best friend for abandoning him, Zayn can forgive too.

Zayn knows he doesn’t need to forgive Harry, but rather he’s the one who should be asking for forgiveness for his constant poor attitude towards Harry, who only wanted to chase his dream with the boy he loved at his side. But it’s too late for conversations and forgiveness. There’s no point in dwelling on the past, but maybe there is a chance for a do-over in the future.

That’s why Zayn goes, not because Niall forced him to, but because deep down, he wanted to. Deep down, he wanted to see Harry’s success. He’ll deny it until he’s blue in the face, say Niall forced him until he believes it, but in his heart, he wanted to go.

So they do, and it’s everything Zayn hates. Sweaty people standing too close, their beers slushing over the rim of their cups and dripping onto his shoes, and a blazing sun that makes him itch and sweat until his shirt is soaked at the neck. He hates these things, but he’s there and there’s no going back.

+

Harry has three pre-performance rituals. His first is to listen to Superstitious by Stevie Wonder because it’s routine, he’s been doing it since he first started. His second is to write an entire page of all the emotions he’s feeling. The third is to call Louis, wherever he is in the world, and thank him for the life changing opportunity he’s been given.

And so he does all three of those things in that order like he’s done since the beginning. He listens to the song, sings along word for word. He writes a page about his nerves and excitement, and about his hopes for Zayn to be out there somewhere. Then he calls Louis, who is in Hawaii on vacation at the moment, and he thanks him a million times for getting him here, for believing in him and giving him the chance he needed. And then Harry takes the stage, just a guy and his guitar, in front of a crowd of at least five thousand, if not more.

His set list is short, just five songs from his album, but he plays his heart out and sings as loud and proud as he can because maybe he proved it all already to his parents, but now he has to prove it to Zayn, wherever out there he may be.

Before the show comes to an end, Harry announces that he’ll perform one more song, a new one, the most special one. And because he’s Harry, he gives a speech, one he promised to make when he wrote the song.

+

_Then_

“Z, I wrote a new song.” Harry told Zayn one afternoon in another of the shitty motels they moved in and out of. He was so excited, throwing his notebook on the table in front of Zayn, completely ignoring the sketch he was working on.

Zayn smiled at him, ready to hear whatever it was Harry would sing, because that’s what he did. He listened and supported Harry through it all.

“One day I’ll record it. I’ll go to a studio and record it, put it on an album, and let the whole world hear it.” Harry told Zayn after playing it. “One day, I’ll play it in front of a crowd. A big one, Z. I’ll sing these words and they’ll know it’s about you.”

“Oh yeah?” Zayn asked, pulling Harry close and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Harry nodded and said, “Yeah. I’ll tell them I wrote it back when I was living in shit motels with my boyfriend, just me and him trying to make it. I’ll tell them I wrote it about my soulmate, the one who taught me how to love and be loved. And you’ll be there in the crowd listening and you’ll know I’m talking about you.”

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to tell me your thoughts and opinions. it'd be much appreciated!  
> [tumblr](http://fireproofhrry.tumblr.com)  
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